Bruised: An Adrien English Fanfic
by Chapin CSI
Summary: Slash. Book: The Adrien English Mysteries by Josh Lanyon. New: Two years ago, Detective Jake Riordan realized he'd lost Adrien; here's what really happened that night.
1. Chapter 1

Bruised

Slash. The Adrien English Mysteries, written by Josh Lanyon.

This is a series about Adrien English, a gay mystery writer and bookstore owner who gets entangled in murderous situations.

Spoiler alert: In The Hell you Say, (the third book in the series) Adrien broke up with Jake Riordan, a closeted cop who was engaged to be married. Since then, Adrien's probably been seeing professor Guy Snowden, but that will be made clear in the next novel. Oh, and Adrien's mother Lisa remarried.

Rewritten on July 2008. Not the last time, I imagine -especially since I'm reading Mr. Lanyon's book on writing ;)

* * *

"Shouldn't you go upstairs and rest?"

I looked up from my computer screen. Natalie was leaning on the doorway, looking concerned.

"I'm fine," I said.

"Are you sure?"

We'd had this conversation twice before, and the fact that she was back was a sign that I had done a poor job placating her.

Anyone else I would have rebuffed in a more energetic manner, but not her; Natalie's not just my assistant at the bookstore, she's also my sister-by-marriage.

When Lisa got married, I didn't just gain a stepfather, I also got three sisters; three feminine, nurturing girls who seemed to believe I needed constant watching. Even before our parents got married, they'd already adopted me as their older brother –or as their older sister?- and while their affection seemed genuine enough, the loner in me found their attention overwhelming at times.

With Natalie constantly around, I sometimes felt that I had no privacy left.

A part of me knew I shouldn't be complaining. Natalie was a better assistant than Angus and Robert ever were; she was dependable and likeable and, unlike those two, she'd never been involved in any serious criminal acts –except for the occasional speeding ticket, and a penchant for wearing loud floral prints.

I guess having someone backing me up unconditionally was something I just wasn't used to.

"You don't look well," Natalie said.

Well, that was a nice way of putting it, considering the right side of my face was a purple and swollen mess, the result of a fistfight I'd been involved in earlier that day.

Yes, a fistfight. Yes, me.

My boyfriend couldn't believe it either.

"You, what?" Guy yelled when I told him over the phone.

I repeated my story, wishing there was something heroic to add to it. If I'd been trying to fend off some thug intent on robbing the bookstore, then at least I'd have had a sense of accomplishment. But I wasn't at the bookstore when I got beaten up.

I was at Paolo's salon, getting a haircut.

At the time we'd been having this huge argument over what to do with my hair -he was all for dying it and I wasn't- when a couple of thugs suddenly invaded the place and started breaking everything in sight. From the insults they hurled at Paolo, I got that his latest ex-lover wasn't taking their break-up kindly.

At this point of my narrative, Guy yelled at me again.

"So, it was Paolo's problem, not yours!"

Yeah, but I couldn't just sit there either. I instinctively jumped from my chair, only to be shoved back into it by a fist that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. I swear I felt my brain rattle inside my skull -

Natalie's voice interrupted my musings.

"Why don't you go upstairs and take a nap?" she offered kindly, "I'll stay here and look after things. It's almost closing time, anyway."

I tilted my head so I could met her gaze with my one good eye.

"I've got to finish this," I said, then added gravely, "I've got a deadline coming up."

"Oh," she said, suitably impressed.

I rarely use the 'deadline card,' but it's very effective; it immediately gets people off my back.

It was the truth, too; I had a deadline coming up, and I was serious about it.

Over the last couple of years I'd written two novels that got published to moderate success. I was happy, and my editor was happy. In fact, he was already hinting at a six-book deal he'd negotiate for me, when catastrophe struck: I failed to come up with a new book.

Gone were the hints about a six-book deal; instead, my editor started talking about dropping me altogether. And he would have, except that the powers that be ordered him to put together a short-story anthology in record time, forcing him to look around for resources. In what was probably my last chance to prove that I was a viable risk, he'd asked me to come up with a new story in three weeks.

I said I'd do it.

Unfortunately, now I had to do it with only one good eye and eight fingers in working condition.

"I have an idea," Natalie said, "Why don't you just use a recorder? Then I could transcribe the text."

"Oh, well. Hum," I stalled, "I don't know -"

Actually, I did know. I was writing about a gay character entangled in an erotically-charged relationship; no way was I going to dictate steamy sex scenes for my sister to type.

I was wondering what to say, when somebody entered the bookstore; Natalie's attention was immediately diverted.

"Think about it," she said, turning away. She believes in giving one-on-one attention to our customers.

There was nothing to think about; I needed to finish my story. But just as I was looking back at the text on the screen, I noticed our visitor's even, heavy stride as he approached the counter.

I looked up sharply. There was something hauntingly familiar about those steps, and for a moment, it took me back to a time when the mere sound of steps like those had set my heart racing.

Detective Jake Riordan's steps.

Those days were long gone, however -along with Detective Riordan. Not that getting over him had been easy; like the phantom pain from a missing limb, torturing me with the notion that nothing had changed, there were times when I thought he was still hanging around. Say I was walking down the street or shopping for cereal -minding my own business, in short- when I'd suddenly hear those steps. I'd instinctively turn around every time, but it was never him.

It was hard, but eventually, the pain faded.

Now it was more like an irritating itch.

"Oh, hello -" Natalie said cheerfully, and a male voice mumbled a response.

My heart did a tumble.

The voice was familiar too. But it couldn't be. No way –

Then Natalie supplied the name.

"Detective Riordan, isn't it?"

* * *

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

BRUISED

Part 2

Whoa, a review from Mr. JL himself. How flattering, (and terrifying) is that?

* * *

"Detective Riordan, isn't it?"

There was a reply but I didn't quite catch the words; (I would have, if my heart hadn't been pounding so loudly). But I recognized Jake's voice, and by the tone alone I easily guess what he'd said: _'Yes, ma'am,'_ or _'good evening, ma'am,'_ or _'sorry to intrude.' _He'd used his cop voice, and boy, did it bring back memories.

He'd used that same tone with me, years ago, when he and his partner, Detective Chan barged into my office to tell me a friend had been murdered. He was vaguely hostile from the start, and I could still remember the faint sneer in his voice as he asked me if I was gay. If someone had told me back then that in just a few months Jake would be in my bed, whispering, (in a tone he only used when we were behind three sets of closed doors), '_Oh, Adrien. Oh, yeah… Just like that… Oh, yes -'_

But that was in the past, I told myself, putting an abrupt stop to that train of thought. I wasn't about to start reliving my relationship with Jake, even if it was the good part, (all five seconds of it).

Frankly, I thought I'd pushed those memories to the back of my head a long time ago. Maybe the damage done to my head was more serious than I thought.

Maybe shaking it would help clear it -

A sharp pain in my temple put a stop to that.

Natalie's next words caught my attention.

"Nice to meet you, Detective." She was talking too loudly, just like she did whenever she wanted to warn me of somebody's presence. Her thoughtfulness comforted me. At least she was there. She'd apologize for me, ask him to please leave a message -but what kind of message? As it was, I couldn't imagine what had brought Jake back, unless he was investigating some case.

But what case?

Again, I tried to catch what they were saying.

"… Natalie," she was saying, and something in her voice made me frown. "His assistant," she added, using the perky tone she reserved for our best clients. It made me roll my good eye. She was being excessively nice to him, and she was doing it as a favor to me.

My sisters had the romantic notion that Jake and me belonged together. It was probably my fault; I'd kept most of the unsavory details of our failed relationship to myself, and as a result, I'd unintentionally shrouded Jake in an appealing veil of mystery. Worse; the little they knew of Jake came mostly from TV news, and the newspaper clippings that mentioned his exploits now and then. That Jake himself was notoriously shy when it came to dealing with the press only made him more intriguing to them.

But there was plenty they didn't know; like the fact that Detective Riordan had a penchant for bondage and S/M clubs, (which explained why he avoided publicity); or that he and his wife had a child, (just telling them he was married had been difficult enough). Not that telling them would have made much of a difference. To them, Jake was simply a confused man who only needed a little time to come around.

I knew better.

"Yes," Natalie was saying, "He is all right, but -"

But what? I frowned when she lowered her voice. I strained my ear and managed to catch a couple of phrases, '…worried about him,' and '…needs a friend,' which sounded like a plea for him to do the job.

Yeah, right.

I might be in need of a friend but Jake Riordan didn't fall under that category. In fact, Jake was the last person I wanted to see right now. I'd been avoiding people all day long and not by accident. I didn't want anyone to see me like this; not my mother, (God, especially not my mother), nor Paolo, who was feeling guilty for getting me involved in his personal problems. Even Guy, who would have at least provided some comfort, had stayed away at my request.

I didn't need anyone; least of all, a man who was in denial about his sexuality and made it a point not to show any emotions whenever the-

My mental diatribe got cut short by my supposedly-protective sister's next words.

"Oh, yes," she said charmingly, "He'll be happy to see you."

Oh, fuck.

I rose abruptly but didn't move any further; there was really nowhere to go: the only door opened to the hallway, on plain sight of anyone entering the bookstore; and the only window was barely big enough for my head to pass through, (and with my swollen eye I couldn't even count on that anymore).

Natalie was taking too long in bringing Jake to the office, thus giving me a chance to put myself together. But what was I supposed to do? Short of putting the wastebasket on my head, there was no way for me to hide the fact that I'd been beaten up. Sure, I could always wear the paper Mache Phantom of the Opera mask I had somewhere in my desk but that was just as ludicrous.

All I could do was step away from the pool of light stemming from the desk lamp. I opened my file cabinet and picked a file at random. This way, I'd be able to see whoever entered the office while keeping my bad side in the dark.

I glanced at the doorway just in time to see them enter.

"Adrien?" Natalie called out. "Detective Riordan is here."

He looked enormous next to my sister. I couldn't see his face, but from the way he was standing there, I could tell he was uncomfortable. I smiled to myself. None of my former assistants had ever been this nice to him, so he was bound to be confused. Suspicious, too.

The perfect hostess, Natalie took Jake's arm and gently steered him into the room.

"You must have a lot to talk about," she said. "I better leave you alone."

Now, _that_ I didn't expect.

"Actually," I said, panic rising, "I'm kind of -" But she didn't seem interested in anything I might have to say; she was already walking away. She stopped when she reached the doorway.

"I'll close up early, if that's ok with you," she announced. "Nice to meet you, Detective. See you, Adrien!" From the hallway she called out, "I'll turn out the lights on my way out!"

And that was it.

So much for her offer to keep an eye on things.

I looked down at the file I'd picked and opened it. It was last year's tax return. I pretended to be engrossed by it, but out of the corner of my eye I could see Jake's every move. He hesitated for just a moment, then took a couple of steps closer to the desk.

He cleared his throat but didn't speak till Natalie closed the front door behind her.

"You have a sister, now."

Tell me something I don't know, _detective._

"Uh, huh," I muttered.

Silence.

He wasn't discouraged. On the contrary; this time he actually leant on the desk.

"Chan told me about your scuffle," he said casually.

I frowned. Detective Chan had helped me, back in the precinct. Without him, I'd have probably stayed longer, waiting for some cop to take my statement. But the reason he was so friendly had nothing to do with Jake -who wasn't even his partner anymore. Chan was writing a book and he came to me for advice now and then.

Why he thought Jake needed to know about my problems wasn't clear.

Jake was shaking his head.

"Well, well," he said, "It didn't take you too long to get in trouble again."

His flippancy irked me; there was nothing amusing about my 'scuffle.' Well, ok, maybe there was; who knows? Maybe some day I'd even get to laugh my ass off about it -but not yet.

"What do you want?" I asked curtly.

"I told you," he said in the same casual tone, "I heard about your scuffle. I didn't read the report, but knowing you, there's got to be something you didn't tell the police."

"What? -"

"Knowing you," he went on, "There must be some vital piece of information you're holding back. Then in a few weeks time it'll turn out you were either trying to protect somebody, or trying to act on your own. Do I have to remind you that this attitude has backfired each and every time?" He paused, but before I could form a reply, he added, "If you're in any kind of trouble, then you better start talking before it gets worse."

I couldn't fucking believe what he was saying. And he was serious, too; he really thought he knew me. So maybe he did, two years ago. A lot had happened since then; I was not the same man.

But I didn't want to be drawn into a discussion with him. I was too tired, and my head was starting to throb.

I forced myself to remain calm.

"I'm not in trouble."

He snorted softly.

"Your name ended up in a police report, Adrien. I'd call that big trouble."

"I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time," I said dismissively, "Paolo's ex-boyfriend tried to smack him and I sort of got in the way."

Jake stared at me for a moment, and then he snorted, loudly this time. It stung, but since this was people's standard reaction to my story, I couldn't very well hold it against him.

"Look," I said, "I already talked to the police. What's it to you, anyway? You don't deal with break-ins and assaults. You only deal with -" But I didn't finish what I was going to say. I didn't want him to think I'd been following his career. "Bottom line is, I already gave my statement to the police."

"And do you think they're gonna invest more than a casual interest in it, Adrien? A fight between queers in a hairdresser's salon?" He sneered, "They were probably laughing at you while you were telling your story!"

The more he talked, the harder it was for me to keep my anger in check. My hands were shaking so badly that I had to clench then into fists. I had to get him out of there and soon.

He still wasn't finished.

"Frankly, I have trouble believing your story, myself."

"Why?" I retorted, "This is not the first time I get in a fight with a _queer_ guy. Last time I did, my glass table got busted, remember?"

Do I have a death wish, or something? I'd just reminded him of the time when, in a fit of anger, he'd shoved me so hard that the glass table I fell on broke under my weight. Not to mention that I'd just called him queer.

Jake didn't visibly react. To my utter surprise, he simply crossed his arms.

I took a deep breath.

"They've got the bad guys, Jake." I said quietly. "End of story."

He shook his head, almost regretfully.

"Things are never than simple when it comes to you, Adrien. Somebody always turns up _dead_."

I gaped. Now, I was getting seriously pissed off -especially because he was right; I'd hold back information a couple of times before and the consequences had been deadly for other people. But I didn't appreciate the reminder. I didn't need it, in the first place; when it came to guilt, my conscience did a great job.

Now I really wanted Jake to leave, and the easiest way to get him to do that was to thank him for his concern and dismiss him, or maybe offer him to call some other time. But I didn't do any of this. Of course, not. Instead, I decided to remind him that when it came to guilty consciences, he wasn't in a position to talk.

"So, how's your kid?" I said.

He looked up sharply. Clearly, this was the last question he expected from me. Taken by surprise, he even started to answer.

"He's -" Then he stopped.

"It's ok," I said, "You don't have to say anything." Deep down, I didn't want to know, anyway. I took a deep breath. "Listen," I said, "I'm very busy right now, so -"

I made a big show of picking files and looking at the labels -not an easy task; the room was becoming too dark.

"He's doing great," Jake said suddenly.

Oh, shit. I didn't _want _to know about his kid. I'd only mentioned it because I was sure he'd rather flee than tell me.

I'd underestimated a man's need to brag about his offspring.

"He's healthy," he said quietly, "He's growing fast; so fast -" He paused again. He took a deep breath. "It's just -"

He seemed unwilling to go on. Maybe he'd just remembered I was the last person he should be telling all this to.

"It's scary, raising a son," he said softly. "It's so easy to do something wrong and damage them." He paused for a moment. He looked down. "I just don't want him to grow up and be like me."

I snorted.

"Like you?" I asked, "You mean a cop? Or tall? Or blond?" I paused, then added bitterly, "Or _gay?"_

He shook his head.

"Angry," he said quietly. Suddenly, he seemed very tired. He looked down, then closed his eyes. "Shit, Adrien," he sighed. "I've been so angry, for so long -"

Now that he'd closed his eyes, it felt safe to venture a closer look. Some of his cockiness seemed to be gone -though some of that self-assurance of his had always struck me as a protective shield anyway- and I needed to see if there were visible changes, too.

His hair was shorter, for starters. And he seemed to have lost weight, which took me by surprise; I thought married men automatically gained weight.

As for his clothes, I didn't recognize any. It seemed his tastes had changed in two years, and I couldn't help wondering whether his wife had something to do with this. Did she choose his clothes for him now? Did she buy him that tie? Did he wear that jacket just to please her…?

I looked at his face again.

He looked exhausted -just as if he hadn't had a moment's rest in weeks. Vulnerable. I knew that look; it meant he'd just finished some big investigation. I saw it a couple of times, back when we were together. He would finish the paperwork back at the precinct, then come to the bookstore, close the door behind him, and then go upstairs to my apartment. He needed to close lots of door before he could even start to relax.

But once inside, he didn't hold back. He'd dive under the covers, and then…

'_Oh, Adrien. Oh, yeah… Just like that… Oh, yes -'_

This time, I remembered more than the words he said when we were together. I remembered -everything.

I took a deep breath then slowly exhaled the air.

I'd just realized something. I'd been lying to myself these past months. All along, I'd been telling myself that I didn't care that he was gone, but I'd been kidding myself.

I still cared.

Suddenly, Jake looked up, his gaze meeting mine with unnerving accuracy.

Caught staring, I couldn't very well turn away.

Unfortunately, this time he did notice my black eye.

His eyes widened.

"Jesus," he blurted out. "What happened to you?"

* * *

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Bruised

Part 3

* * *

"Jesus," he blurted out. "What happened to you?"

"Not much," I said sarcastically, "I was in a scuffle, remember?"

"Chan didn't say you got hurt." He took a single step in my direction then seemed to realize what he was doing, and stopped. "Jesus," he said again. "Your eye -"

"It's nothing," I shrugged, "You should have seen the other guy's."

No kidding. Just as the thug was about to punch me again, I'd grabbed the closest thing on the counter and threw it at him. A bottle of hair-dye solution --not the deadliest of weapons, except that it burst open on contact, splashing its contents all over the thug's face. To everybody's surprise, the man howled and started clawing at his eyes as if I'd dowsed him with cyanide. For one sickening moment I thought his whole face was going to fall apart in big, bloody chunks of flesh.

Next time Paolo offers to dye my hair, I'll remind him of this little scene.

I didn't tell Jake any of this. I thought it was a funny story, but Guy didn't laugh when I told him, and by the look on Jake's face, I doubted he'd see the humor in it.

Actually, Jake's reaction seemed extreme for someone who claimed to be there only as a cop. In fact, he looked worried sick, just like he did a few years back, when I ended up in a hospital.

I didn't want to admit it, but seeing him like this gave me a warm, fuzzy feeling.

Or maybe it was just the meds wearing off.

Whatever it was, it didn't last long. Like all strong, silent types who've let their feelings get in the way however briefly, Jake quickly regretted it. One minute he was worried sick, the next he was pissed.

"Shit, Adrien!" he burst out, "Why can't you stay away from trouble?" He took a step forward, forcing me into a corner, "Why can't you get it into your head that you-are-not-a-cop?" he spat, stabbing my chest with his index finger to punctuate the words.

I pushed his hand away.

"Wait a fucking minute! It's not like I was looking for -"

"And where the hell was Snowden while all this happened?"

I snorted.

"This has nothing to do with Guy!" I protested, "He wasn't anywhere near when -"

_Snowden._

Funny, I hadn't mentioned Guy at all. And while Detective Chan probably knew about him, I could hardly imagine him volunteering the information to Jake –or Jake asking, for that matter. But if Chan didn't tell him, then it could only mean that Jake had been keeping tabs on me all along.

Paranoid? Maybe. But it was enough to make me forget the warm, fuzzy feeling.

This was closer to creepy.

I didn't finish what I was going to say. Instead, I forced myself to be reasonable.

"Look. They got the bad guys -end of story. I'm not withholding information; I'm not in trouble. I'm ok, so -" I let the word trail off, hoping he'd get the hint.

He didn't. He, too, got his own temper back in check. He studiously glanced away. His eyes fell on the opposite wall.

"You've made some changes here," he said.

He'd never shown any interest in my office before; now, he started noticing things, like the autographed pictures from famous gay writers, and the posters for upcoming book releases. Natalie had done her part by putting a half-dozen clay pots on the bookshelves, but those hadn't fared well, since neither one of us really cared for them. Only a few plants remained now, all struggling to survive.

Jake took all this with a sweeping glance, only pausing at the sight of a picture frame on the desk. All he could see was the back, and I had the impression that it bothered him, the fact that he couldn't see whose picture it was. I expected him to simply walk to the desk and pick it up, but he didn't. Instead, he walked to the nearest poster and studied it closely, almost as if he expected it to yield evidence of some kind.

"So," he said after a moment, his eyes never leaving the poster, "Where's this guy?"

I winced. 'This _guy_' was how everyone seemed to refer to Guy; they even used the same derisive tone. For some reason, neither my friends nor my family had ever warmed up to Guy. They didn't like the fact that he was older than me, for instance; or that he wore his hair long. They didn't like his accent, or the flowing shirts he occasionally wore, or -well, just about everything about him, really.

They were very vocal in their disapproval, too. Even my mother, who'd never really liked Jake, now sometimes asked, 'Have you seen Detective Riordan lately?' in Guy's presence. Once, after (privately) criticizing him for wearing his hair in a pony-tail she'd asked me, in all seriousness, 'Why doesn't he act his age?' Which, coming from her, seemed like a serious case of the pot calling the kettle black.

"Where's he?" Jake insisted, and he even glanced around as if he expected Guy to jump out of a corner. He looked back at the poster. "I would have thought he'd be here, hovering over you," he muttered. "Unless you're keeping him away on purpose, now that you've lost your pretty-boy looks."

Whoa.

Talk about the power of words. Just one phrase and it felt like I'd been punched on the face all over again.

And the worst part was that Jake was right. I _was_ depressed over my face. I was afraid of scars and permanent damage –but then who wouldn't? I didn't think I had 'pretty-boy' looks to start with but I liked my face the way it was yesterday. So, yeah, I'd been keeping people away –only my reasons weren't as noble as I'd thought; there was vanity involved, too. Jake had seen right through me.

It seemed he did know me, after all; the smug son of a bitch really did.

He wasn't interested in my reaction to his words, though. He didn't even look at me; he was still looking at the posters. Some of them were pretty tame; others, like the one he was looking at now, weren't. This one featured two bare-chested men standing back to back –and butt to butt- holding huge guns at a suggestive angle. Above them, a title in black proclaimed, 'Heat in Paradise: A new Carlton Chester mystery.'

He snorted noisily.

I glanced at him in irritation. He'd never been a fan of gay mysteries –no news there –but he'd usually kept his comments to himself. This time I didn't think he'd be as cautious, and I almost hoped he wouldn't. I was ready to fight for my craft.

But he didn't say anything; he just walked around the room, glancing here and there, touching things, and acting like a cop intent on making a suspect nervous.

Or pissed off.

After one last look at the room –and yet another covert glance at the picture frame on the desk- he ambled back to his former spot next to the filing cabinet. He was careful not to look me in the face this time. Apparently, he was having trouble dealing with my lost 'pretty-boy' looks. 'Good', I thought, and turned my head so he'd have an eyeful next time he looked up.

He winced when he looked at my eye again, but put himself together almost immediately. When he looked up again, his eyes devoid of emotion.

"I was here on New Year's Eve," he said quietly.

I frowned.

"New Year's -" I was trying to remember what I did last year. Dinner, of course. At Guy's home, not here. In fact, I wasn't here at all -

"Two years ago," Jake added as if he'd been reading my thoughts. "A couple of weeks after we -" he faltered. "-after we broke up."

He let these words sink in.

I remembered, then. Two years ago, Guy picked me up early in the morning. We took a drive, we had lunch together, and then we came back here. And then –

I looked up sharply. Jake met my gaze.

"I was hoping you'd be here, going over your accounts –you know, like the year before. I thought maybe we could talk, and -" he didn't finish. He shook his head, as if amused at the memory. "Anyway, the bookstore was closed, but the lights were on, so… I peered through the windows. I saw you -" he didn't finish.

I knew what Jake saw.

Unlike him, who wouldn't touch me unless we were safely hidden upstairs, Guy had simply reached for me and started kissing me. His eagerness took me by surprise. I knew he wanted me; I just didn't know he wanted me this much.

I started kissing him back just as passionately. We'd barely made it upstairs –

And Jake had been watching.

* * *

A new AE mystery's coming up -yipee.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruised

* * *

So, it wasn't paranoia, after all. He'd been keeping tabs on me.

Unless he'd only come to buy a book. It could happen, right?

Right.

I narrowed my good eye.

"What were you doing here?"

He shrugged.

"I just wanted to talk."

"To talk," I repeated skeptically.

"Yeah. Believe it or not, there aren't many people I can talk to, Adrien," he said sarcastically. "It was New Year's Eve," he added, as if that was explanation enough. "But you were with him, so -" he let the word trail off.

All of a sudden, he looked vulnerable, again. Disappointed.

There was a faraway look in his eyes as he added, "And all I could think of was that you met him while I was still in the picture. And that all those talks we used to have about commitment -" he looked at me. "Remember those?"

Oh yeah. Sometimes, late at night, when even sex couldn't help us relax after a full day at work, we'd talk. A recurrent theme was gay men's ability to stay in a committed relationship. I believed in it, Jake didn't. According to him, gay men were inherently promiscuous -always on the prowl, checking out every man they met, picturing what sex with them would be like. It was, he said, what he hated about the lifestyle.

And I invariably pointed out that straight people probably did some checking of their own, while Jake's response was always the same: 'How do you know? You're not straight.' And I could have easily pointed out that _he _wasn't straight either, but what was the point? By then I'd learned all about Jake's contradictions, big and small: He didn't consider himself gay, yet he slept with me on a regular basis; he championed monogamy, yet he was having affairs with both a man and a woman -not to mention the casual encounters he maintained in S&M clubs. Telling him he was a goddamn hypocrite would have only spoilt the few times we spent together.

"I remember," I said, not sure where he was going on with this.

"It turned out I was right, after all," he said bitterly.

Oh. So, apparently, Detective Riordan was pissed that I'd found someone in a short period of time.

Un-fucking-believable.

"So," I said casually, "How's _marriage_ working out for you?" Not the best comeback, but it was all I had. I already knew what he was going to say, though: '_It's been great,' _or _'fantastic,' _or _'it's the best relationship I've ever been in,' _or any of the trite phrases you say when you meet an ex.

But he didn't say any of these things. After a moment's hesitation, he shrugged -an almost imperceptible move- and then he gave me a brief, bitter smile.

It wasn't going well. Well, no surprises, there.

"Well, what did you expect, Jake? A_ miracle cure_?"

"Yeah," he said simply, "I did. I hoped it would help me change."

I snorted. For a smart guy, Jake could be incredibly stupid.

"You don't understand," he said tiredly. "You don't know how it is."

He was right; I didn't know. But I had an idea.

A while ago, I was at a park, waiting for a tai chi class to begin, when I heard a man yell, _'Pick that up. What are you, some kind of sissy?' _I looked around; in a nearby clearing, standing in a semi-circle, a big burly guy and a couple of teenage boys were overseeing a third kid's clumsy attempts to bat.

Even _I_ could tell the kid was holding that bat with more eagerness than accuracy. He probably wasn't a natural at baseball but he kept trying, obviously determined to show them he wasn't a sissy. But he kept failing.

Finally, the man looked around and said, "_Show your sissy brother, Derrick."_

I'll never forget the look on that kid's face as his older brother took the bat away: he was embarrassed, and disappointed, too. Mostly, he was angry, and I could tell his anger wasn't directed at his father or his brothers, but at himself. He hated being called a sissy; he hated failing at baseball…

And all of a sudden, I started thinking of Jake. He didn't particularly resemble the boy, but he had two older brothers –cops, just like himself- so it was only too easy to picture him in a similar situation. I wondered if he, too, had felt the need to prove himself in the eyes of his father and brothers -even to a point where he'd sacrifice his true self in order to belong.

So, yeah, I did understand Jake's motives; I even felt a bit sorry for the little kid he once was.

I just didn't feel much sympathy for him now.

At least, I was trying not to; he was looking so miserable, it was hard not to feel sorry for him. He even leant on the cabinet as if he were too exhausted to stand on his own.

"I made a mistake -" he started, and then scoffed, "Now, _that_'s an understatement." He smiled bitterly, and then he looked away. He was silent for a moment, "It was a mistake, and yet I don't think I would have done it any differently," he said softly; almost to himself. "I was raised to do the honorable thing, after all."

I looked down, uncomfortably. This was more than I wanted to know.

"At least I made my family happy," he added ironically. "Whether I've made Kate happy remains to be seen." Finally, he looked up. "My life is hell, though."

_'Oh, jeeze',_ I thought. I didn't want to hear this.

"But you already knew, right?" he said tiredly, "You tried to warn me -"

I shook my head.

"Jake -"

"- and you were right, all along," he said, "It wasn't just about my job, or my relationships with my family and Kate. It was about my soul, too. Now I feel like I've lost it."

"Why are you telling me this?"

He didn't immediately reply.

"Last time I was here, I -" he paused, the words too difficult to say. Or too embarrassing? "Last time I was here I pushed you. I didn't mean to, but the damage was done, so -" He let the word trail off. His lips moved, but the words didn't immediately come, "I guess I feel that I owe you," he said at last, "I'm telling you this because if I do, then maybe, in some way -"

_What?_

"What?" I prompted.

"Then maybe then we'll be even. And you won't hate me anymore."

_Oh, jeeze_. I couldn't believe it. And the worst part was that he sounded very sincere about it.

"Jesus, Jake. I don't hate you," I muttered. "And I don't need to see you down." Ok, maybe part of me did. Part of me wanted to gloat. But sensitive guys don't do that, do they? Of course, not. Sensitive guys understand other people's motives. They're forgiving.

They also put their feet in their mouths now and then.

"To tell you the truth," I said, "I don't like seeing you like this. Crushed, I mean. You've always been too arrogant for your own good, but that's who you are, so -"

Jake looked up sharply, a sudden look of interest on his face. It was so abrupt, it made me stop and review what I'd just said.

What the heck did I just say?

Jake was looking thoughtfully at me. He was studying me, and this time the sight of my swollen eye wasn't a determent.

"So," he said after a moment. "About you and the Professor," and there was a slight sneer as he said 'the professor'. "How's that relationship going?"

"Great," I blurted out. "Fantastic -" I stopped.

Jake nodded noncommittally, but I knew that look. It said he didn't believe one word I'd said. I didn't believe them, either. I'd sounded too eager, as if I were trying to convince not only him by myself too. But I didn't need convincing; I mean, it was a great relationship -much better than the one I'd had with Jake, that's for sure.

And yet –

"That's great," Jake said, nodding slowly. "So, why isn't he here?" He kept his gaze on me, challenging me to answer.

"I thought you already knew the answer to that," I retorted.

"Part of the answer," he said. "But there's more." He lowered his voice, "You hate to be in a vulnerable position, don't you?"

"Excuse me?"

"You hate having people fussing over you."

"I don't -"

"You see it as a sign of weakness," he added. He shook his head, "You should let others take care of you, now and then, Adrien."

I snorted, "So, now, all of a sudden, you're Mr. Sensitive?"

"Hey, I'm just saying," he shrugged.

"So, this is what you've learned after two years of marriage?"

"No," he replied. "I've always known. I just never said anything." Idly, he picked one of my files as he spoke, and as he did, his jacket opened.

A warm scent drifted in my direction then; a scent that I recognized despite the strong scent of antiseptics and sterile gauze hanging around me. It was a familiar mixture of cologne, after-shave, gun oil, and, underneath it all, Jake's own essence: the clean, warm smell of his skin at the end of a hard-day's work.

Funny, what a whiff of a scent can do; suddenly, I was back in time, reliving Tuesday nights. Jake would come to my place and sometimes –most times, actually- he'd wrap his arms around me, pull me close till my face was buried deep into his neck. I'd breathe him in, then; kiss the sensitive spot under his ear, and lick it -

God, how many times did I get to do that?

Not many, as it turned out. Not enough.

It was never enough -

"Adrien?"

I looked up.

Jake was frowning.

"You ok?" There was genuine concern in the question. Maybe the fact that I was leaning forward had something to do with it. He probably thought I was about to pass out.

"Sure," I said, straightening up. "I'm ok." _I just wanted to smell you, but that's ok, right?_

"Are you taking medication?"

"I'm fine, Jake." _Don't fuss, Jake._

"All right," he said in a placating tone, "Here," he added, handing back the file he took. "Your Taxes of 2002."

I put it in a random space in the cabinet. Tomorrow, I'd have to straighten up the mess I was making. Right now, there was a different mess I needed to clear up.

"Listen, Jake," I started. "I… I appreciate what you did today -coming here, I mean. But I'm busy."

"With your taxes of 2002," he nodded gravely.

"Actually, I'm writing," I replied. I pointed my chin in my PC's direction. "I have a deadline coming up. I need to finish today, so -"

"You're in no condition to write," he dismissed. "You're injured. And even if your fingers were ok, you're taking pain medication. Trust me; whatever you write today will make no sense tomorrow."

I opened my mouth but nothing came. No retort, no wise-ass comments. Maybe it was true. Maybe I was in no condition to do anything but sleep.

"Whatever," I muttered. "Look. What I'm trying to say is… I'm sorry. Ok? I'm sorry that things aren't working out for you."

"You should be," Jake said ironically. "It's your fault."

"My fault?"

"Yeah," he said levelly. He took a step closer, again crowding me into a corner. "I could have made it work, Adrien. I wanted to make it work. I kept trying, but -" Suddenly, his hand shot out. I pulled away but wasn't quick enough; he caught me by the neck. There was no aggression behind the move, though. He just laid his hand on the back of my neck, his fingers moving gently, as if he were only trying to make sure everything was just as he remembered.

His touch was just as _I_ remembered.

"I kept thinking of this," he said huskily, as his fingers started to move from my neck to the back of my head. They traced a delicate line from there to my temple, "And this -" he added, as he ruffled my hair. Suddenly, he stopped.

His eyebrows rose in surprise.

"What the fuck is this?"

Oh, yeah. My hair. I'd forgotten all about it.

"Paolo couldn't finish the haircut," I muttered, pulling my head away. "His hands were shaking too much."

Meanwhile, I was condemned to walk around with my hair longer on one side.

Jake chuckled. A genuine smile that put creases and dimples in all the right places.

"Life's never boring around you, is it?" he said fondly.

He patted my hair one last time, and then he let his hand drop.

I looked down at it, suddenly disappointed that he wouldn't touch me anymore.

"Adrien? Are you taking medication?"

I mumbled a name.

"Standard pain-reliever," he said knowingly, "How's it working out?"

"It's ok," I mumbled uncomfortably.

He was right; I didn't like people fussing over me.

"The problem is, it usually wears off too soon, forcing you to take more. Listen," he added, all business, now, "Ice helps, sometimes. It stops the swelling, it dulls the pain."

"The doctor -"

"The doctor has probably never been personally injured, Adrien. I, on the other hand, have extensive experience in these matters. Ice will help, trust me. Do you have an ice pack?"

I shook my head.

"That's ok. Crushed ice cubes in a Ziploc bag will do." He glanced upstairs. "Do you've still keep a tray in your fridge?"

I hesitated; things were getting out of control and I couldn't react fast enough.

"I'll go get it," Jake said, and he started walking away.

It wasn't till I heard him take the stairs that I realized he was serious; he was going upstairs to get me some ice. Only he wouldn't be able to do that because I kept the door to my apartment locked.

But he already knew that. He was counting on me to come up and open the door for him.

Well, I wasn't going to do that. Even if all he only wanted was to get me some ice -

And that was all he wanted, wasn't it?

I tried to ignore the sound of his steps reaching the top of the stairs by getting busy. I went back to the desk and turned on a lamp, and then looked at the lap top. The screen had gone black a long time ago. I was reaching for the the mouse, when something drew my attention away. The picture frame. Guy seemed to be looking directly at me; he was beaming, his arm loosely draped around me. I was grinning, with a 'look, everybody -he loves me!' smile that seemed pathetic at times.

Well, at least, I looked happy. I _was_ happy. Really.

And yet -

I shook my head. What the hell was happening to me?

I determinedly reached for the lap top, but in the end, I didn't touch it. Jake was right on this at least; nothing I wrote today would make any sense tomorrow.

I glanced upstairs.

Nothing I did tonight would, either.

* * *

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Bruised

Note: Josh Lanyon's novels always include a mystery. You won't find a mystery here, although there _is_ one that I haven't solved yet: why the heck did I get myself into this? It's one thing to write slash stories about TV characters who aren't even gay, but it's quite another to write about an established gay character!

At least I was wise enough not to include a sex scene. I'm leaving that to the master.

Anyway, I vowed not to read my new AE mystery till I finished this, so here I go.

* * *

_'What would you do, if Jake Riordan came back?'_

That's what Paolo asked me, two months after I stopped seeing Jake.

We were in Paolo's salon that day, sitting on the chairs, idly drinking red wine like wealthy clients waiting for our hair stylists to appear. Paolo had closed up early, told his people to leave, and then opened a bottle he'd been keeping for a special occasion. 'And what better occasion than this?' he'd said grandly.

And I liked the gesture; I liked sitting there, watching the red wine glow in our long-stemmed glasses and listening to what Paolo calls his 'hair-raising tales of the hairdresser.' It was cozy, it was relaxing… Till he ambushed me with the question.

And now, he was looking at me, the concern clear in his eyes as he waited for my reply.

I didn't immediately speak. I thought the answer was obvious; I was already seeing Guy on a regular basis –wasn't that proof enough that I was over Jake? But Paolo needed me to spell it out. He didn't like Guy but he liked Jake even less.

_'What would you do if he fell down on his knees and asked for forgiveness?'_ he pressed, _'Would you take him back?'_

I knew full well that Jake was not coming back, but I pretended to consider the possibility. Besides, I liked the idea of Jake falling on his knees for me, even if it wasn't to ask forgiveness…

Finally, I shook my head.

_'You wouldn't?'_ he pressed.

_'Nah,'_ I said. _'It would be too complicated; he's gonna have a kid -'_

_'He's damaged goods!'_ Paolo proclaimed, and the words made me laugh.

Paolo liked my reaction; he smiled and clicked his long-stemmed glass against mine. He must have thought I was finally on my way to get over Jake.

So what would he say if he saw me climbing the stairs towards Jake, and then opening my door for him?

_'Oh, Adrien, why? Why, for fuck's sake?'_

---

I wasn't sure what to expect from Jake. I certainly didn't expect him to go straight to the kitchen the minute I opened the door, but that's exactly what he did. He made himself at home right away; he turned on the lights, opened the fridge and a couple of cabinets, and then took everything he needed to the sink.

He worked efficiently, emptying the ice trays into a Ziploc bag, then crushing the ice cubes with the back of a spoon.

"Do you still keep your dish towels here?" But he was already opening the cabinet under the sink. He knew where everything was; he was just making conversation, like a good host trying to put a shy guest at ease.

And truly, I felt like a stranger in my own home at that moment.

Jake wrapped the towel around the ice bag, making a neat, easy-to-handle package.

"Here," he said, walking up to me. I reached for the ice, but Jake ignored me. With his free hand, he gently tilted my face to the light, and then carefully pressed the ice pack on my eye.

"Feels better?" He asked after a moment.

I nodded, dumbly.

I thought of the paramedic who'd examined me early that day. He'd smelled of garlic and antiseptics, and he'd worn latex gloves as he probed my head, looking for concussions. I remembered how careful he was not to come into contact with my bare skin. I knew it was the standard procedure, but I also knew he was being extra careful because of who I was and where we were. It almost made me wish I'd had my eye smashed in a different setting –an Irish pub, for instance. Then he would have probably commiserated and talked about football, instead of acting like I was carrying a deadly disease.

Compared to that guy's touch, Jake's felt like a balm. He smelled better, too.

Jake lowered the ice for a moment and took a critical look at me.

"You're gonna be fine," he said at last. "Just keep the wound clean and it'll heal in no time."

"Good," I mumbled, "'Cause I really want my pretty-boy looks back."

It was intended as a joke, but Jake looked chagrined.

"Oh, shit," he mumbled uncomfortably, "I'm sorry I said that." He looked into my eyes. He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Adrien. For everything. I made a mess of things -" He reached out and gingerly touched my swollen temple. "And now this," he said, almost angrily. "I feel like it's my fault -"

I rolled my good eye.

"You can't control these things, Jake. You're not God –you just act as if you were."

"I thought that's what you liked about me," he replied with a smile.

I didn't smile back. I was looking closely at him, noticing things under the stark light of the kitchen. His smile looked forced, and he looked tired; worn-out.

Life hadn't been kind to Jake, these past two years. He'd made a mess of things, but he'd paid for it.

I wanted to gloat, but instead I felt sorry.

I reached out and touched his face.

"You son of a bitch," I sighed.

---

"Ice is melting."

Jake husky voice brought me out of my slumber.

"Mmmmh." That was the only response he was going to get. The ice was melting –so what? It wasn't melting anywhere near me, so what did I care? I just wanted to lay under the covers, with Jake's body comfortably plastered against mine, his chest rubbing my back with every breath he took. Any movement would put an end to what felt like perfect harmony.

But Jake was obviously restless. He'd raised his head, probably to check on the clock on side the table, only to notice that the ice pack he'd dropped there was melting. And he didn't stop at that; by the slight movements that followed, it was obvious he was glancing around, checking out my bedroom the same way he'd checked out on my office.

By now he'd probably noticed the bathrobe hanging on the back of the door –Guy's robe; not mine. I didn't even like bathrobes.

And if he noticed the bathrobe, then he'd probably noticed the text books topping my bookshelf and the sweater draped on a chair –objects that were clearly no mine. And since he'd noticed the ice, then surely he had noticed the framed picture on the side table –an exact duplicate of the one on my desk.

Both frames were a gift from Guy, who kept a close tab on anniversaries and birthdays, unlike certain people I knew, (including me). Pictures were something of an obsession for Guy. He liked to document every aspect of our lives together, and now there was not a room in my place that didn't have a shot of the happy couple.

It was overwhelming sometimes.

Natalie kept telling me I was letting Guy take over my home and I reluctantly agreed. I mean, I didn't leave my stuff lying around at his place –

Not that I got many chances to do that; Guy rarely asked me over.

Jake tentatively wrapped his fingers around my bicep. Gently, he made me turn until I was lying on my back.

"You ok?" Did I detect a little guilt behind the question? If there was, it was uncalled-for. He'd been careful all along; he even insisted that we lay on our sides so I wouldn't get hurt any further.

"I'm ok," I muttered.

"What about your heart," he said awkwardly.

"I'm doing fine," I said curtly. It was a touchy subject, and it always would be. "I'm on a new medication," I added, just to show him I had no trouble talking about it.

He was silent for a moment, then whispered. "I did miss you."

I believed him.

I also believed he hadn't fucked another man all this time; he'd been too tentative with me, and not just because of my injuries, although that probably played a part. He'd been eager, nervous; just as if it were his first time with a guy.

He was chagrined when he came too soon.

_'Oh, shit, no,'_ he'd gasped, _'I'm sorry, I'm sorry -'_

I didn't comfort him; instead, I reached behind me to make sure he wouldn't withdraw; then, matter-of-factly, I clenched my muscles around him, trapping him; then slowly, carefully, I moved and coaxed him back to life.

It worked.

_'Oh, fuck -'_ he'd groaned in astonishment._ 'Oh, Jesus,' _he said, this time in gratitude, as his body reacted to my ministrations. Oh, yes. Sex with a much-older man had taught me to be resourceful, and now Jake had benefited from my bag of tricks. How ironic was that?

"I did," Jake said, in case I didn't believe he'd miss me. "Adrien," he muttered huskily.

I almost said his name, too. But I knew how it would sound. And I knew I wouldn't stop at that.

Instead, I used humor.

"You know, I swore I'd never do this."

He froze.

"What?" he asked cautiously.

"This," I said, tilting my head towards my feet, "Have sex with my socks on."

I wiggled my toes to make my point.

He chuckled.

"You should be ashamed," he said. With a few deft movements, he managed to remove my socks –and his.

"There," he said, as he lay down beside me again. "Your conscience is free once again."

Oh, if only, I thought. With Guy's smiling face only a few inches away, I could hardly talk about a free conscience.

Jake seemed to guess what I was thinking, because his gaze turned to the frame on the night table.

He opened his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. He did this twice more before he finally said something.

"There's something I didn't tell you before."

Oh, Jeeze, I thought. What now?

"That night, two years ago -" he let the word trail off.

"New year's eve," I muttered.

"I was watching you," Jake said, "And him. I couldn't believe it -"

Well, I couldn't believe it, either. I mean, Guy didn't just pulled me for a kiss; he actually _climbed_ the counter to get at me. He was extremely limber for an older guy -not to mention sexy and dashing. He was like a pirate intent on pillaging a city –or at least, its single occupant. How could I not fall for him?

"I was so fucking angry," Jake whispered, "No, that's not it," he amended, "It was more like _rage_." He was silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. He gulped, as if the next words were too difficult to say. "At one some point, I even reached for my gun."

Shit.

Jake tightened the hold on my arm as if he was afraid that I was going to bolt. But I was too shocked to move.

He gulped again.

"I actually took it out, Adrien," he said in a shaky voice. "I wanted to -" he couldn't finish.

"I wanted to shoot him," he said at last. "Obliterate every trace of him. I've seen so many crime scenes, it wasn't hard for me to picture him, lying in a pool of blood -" the word trailed off. He took a deep breath. "And I guess I wanted to kill you, too. I mean, you were right there, with him. You were bound to get hurt -"

Jesus.

"I guess that's what kept me from doing it," he said softly. "The fact that you were there."

He took a deep breath again, fortifying himself for what was left to say. "The rest is a blur to me. At some point I put the gun back in the holster, but I don't remember doing it. By the time I really started noticing things, I was running." He was silent for a moment, then glanced at me, "You'd never guess where I was running to."

I shook my head.

"A homeless shelter." He chuckled bitterly.

"Why -"

"I needed help," he said bluntly "I knew I'd find someone in the shelter –someone I could talk to. Therapists do volunteer work there all the time. I mean, it was either a therapist or a priest, and a priest was the last person I wanted to talk to. I was lucky; it was New Year's Eve and the place was bursting with people, but the guy in charge took the time to listen to me. He took me to an anger-management meeting right away." He chuckled again.

"I attended weekly sessions for a couple of months," he said. "Then one day the counselor said I was wasting my time and his. He said I knew what was making me angry, and I knew what the solution was; he said I'd been living a lie for too long, and I had to do something about it. And I already knew all that; I mean, you'd been telling me the exact same thing for months. I just couldn't do anything about it; I had Kate to think of; and the baby, and -" he let the word trail off.

"So my solution was to stay away from you," he said. "It's not that I was afraid I was going to shoot this guy on sight –that part was over. I just didn't want to see you two together. But when Chan told me about the assault, well, I just couldn't stay away. I had to check on you, in case you were in trouble. 'Cause you _do_ tend to get in trouble, you know," and he smiled, as if he were trying to make light of the things he'd just said. "I did keep an eye on you, though. Sort of. Each month, I'd check on book listings in case there was something new from you."

Funny; of all the things he'd just admitted to, this was the one that got to me; the fact that he'd been on the lookout, waiting in vain for a book from me.

Jake was looking at me, waiting for me to say something.

"Adrien?"

My lack of response seemed to worry him.

"Are you -" _Are you ok?_ He had the sense not to finish the question. Of course, I wasn't ok. "Do you –do you want to get some sleep?"

He sounded like he was hoping I would, so I nodded.

"Can I get you your medication?"

I nodded again.

"Bathroom," I said succinctly.

"You shouldn't keep your medication in the bathroom," he said as he rose from the bed. "You outta keep it in a dry place -" he muttered all the way to the bathroom.

He returned with a couple of plastic bottles and a glass of water. He was reading the labels on the bottles as he walked back to bed. "You want these?" he said, offering me one, "They'll help you sleep better."

Of course; he wanted me to fall asleep fast so he could make his getaway. I almost reached for the other bottle, just to make things more difficult for him, but there was no use postponing the inevitable. Besides, my head was starting to throb.

Jake took the glass and put it next to the melting ice, then got into bed again, this time on the other side, so he could face me. He pulled the covers around us, and then he wrapped an arm around me.

I looked up. His eyes were bright, but it might have been the moonlight hitting him at an odd angle.

Awkwardly, I patted his jaw, relishing the feel of his five O'clock shadow. Even this, I'd missed. I missed him so fucking much... And I hadn't yet told him.

"-Jake -"

"Sleep," he said.

I didn't want to sleep; not yet. 'What now?' I wanted to ask.

I tried to sit up, but couldn't. My head felt as if it had swollen to a triple its size.

"Whoa," I muttered in surprise. The night medication packed quite a punch.

"I know," he said in commiseration. "Just close your eyes."

I obeyed but didn't immediately fall asleep. At least, I don't think so, although what happened next has the quality of a dream.

"Jake?" I mumbled. "You love me, right?"

See? It had to be a dream.

Jake didn't immediately answer; he gulped a couple of times before he dared to speak.

"I'd give my heart to you, Adrien."

My reply was less than romantic.

"Yeah…? Put it in writing."

He chuckled.

"Try to sleep."

"- bekfst?" I muttered. 'Will you stay for breakfast?' was what I wanted to say, but my lips refused to obey.

"Ok," he whispered. "Go to sleep."

I fell asleep with the nagging thought that I had nothing but boxes of cereal for breakfast.

But the point was moot because when I woke up the next morning, Jake was already gone.

* * *

TBC


End file.
